


Je Suis Morte De Faim

by ileolai



Series: Fawlty TARDIS [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Gen, Gratuitous French, Je veux une quiche, Nardole the poor long-suffering cinnamon bun, jaffa cakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 11:54:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11897217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ileolai/pseuds/ileolai
Summary: Just Missy being awful.





	Je Suis Morte De Faim

**Author's Note:**

> I was hungry when I wrote this.

Missy, reclining in the chair she's fully claimed as ''Missy's Chair'' now, snaps her book shut.

"Oof. I'm hungry. Hey look, there's Nardole. Let's eat him."

"You don't wanna eat Nardole." Says the Doctor, half-listening as he fiddles with the console.

"I really dooo, though. With bourguignonne." She whines.

"Nah. I made his pancreas from a hacky sack. Prob'ly tastes like a two-hundred-year-old boot."

''Uh, excuse me?'' Says Nardole.

"You'd be surprised what a good sous-vide can do . . . and I've a theory he's got Cadbury Creme filling on the inside."

''Uhm . . . I'm right here, y'know.''

"He doesn't have Cadbury Creme filling on the inside." Says the Doctor, dodging a minor explosion.

"Can I stab him, just to see?"

''No.''

''Not even a little bit?''

''No.''

''Please. I'll be nice to-- whatshername-- for like, a whole week if you let me eat him.''

''This isn't negotiable!''

''Pshaw.''

" _Excuse_ me.'' Nardole interjects. ''Could we not talk about stabbing me and eating me in front of me? Also--'' he frowns, ''-- hacky sack?"

"Sorry, had to improvise."

''What's a hacky sack?''

''It's like a little football sort of thing.'' 

''My pancreas is a _football_?''

''It's keeping you alive, isn't it?''

"Excuse me, pardon me, HELLO, is anyone listening? I'm _starving_ over here. Nardole is right there, and you'd have me waste away to _nothing_." Missy makes a theatrical fainting gesture.

"Come off it, Missy. Leave Nardole alone."

"Thank you, sir.''

"Nardole, get Missy some Jaffa cakes or something."

"Sir!"

''Look, I'm busy, and she's hungry.'' He motions to Missy, who is fixated on Nardole from across the room, with a strange smile, like a hungry cat. ''Would you rather she turn you into quiche?''

''Ooh, quiche sounds _divine._ Let's bake him.'' 

The Doctor raises his eyebrows at Nardole. Conceding, and shuffling off, Nardole mutters something about ''not signing up to babysit bloody awful Time Lords''.

''There, I got you some Jaffa cakes.'' The Doctor says. ''Happy?''

''Non.'' Missy pouts. ''Je déteste les Jaffa cakes.''

''Everyone likes Jaffa cakes, don't be difficult.''

''They're not even real cakes, though, are they? S'false advertising. You can get sued for that. And I wanted quiche. Quiche de Nardole, specifically.''

He sighs. ''Y'know . . . I really should ask myself why I keep saving you from execution.'' 

''Hmm.'' Missy taps her chin, like she even needs time to come up with a self-flattering answer. ''My irresistible savoir-vivre, coupled with a certain rrrakish charm?''

''Righto.'' He scoffs. 

''Glad we can agree on something, dear.''

There's a short pause, while the Doctor attempts to go back to what he was doing, dodging more sparks from the recalcitrant console. Missy drums her fingers on her book, and hums impatiently.

''Sooo . . .''

''What now?''

''Can we eat Nardole?''

''NO.''

 


End file.
